Page 46 of The Cruel Heir
For twelve weekdays, the driver dropped me at Saint Bipal’s limestone gate, while two plain-clothes guards shadowed every lecture. Gossip spread faster than syllabus sheets; heiress under house arrest, yet still chasing credits. When paparazzi breached the quad on day thirteen, Sterling ordered my immediate withdrawal, and I wasn’t sure where I stood.
But, I was living my dream, I guess.Yay.
STERLING
The night tasted of iron. My knuckles stung from connecting with bone one too many times, and the metallic warmth of blood clung to my skin, like an unwanted second layer. The Kingsley name demanded loyalty, and when that loyalty wavered, I was the one sent to collect. Tonight was no different.
The warehouse smelled like rot and desperation. Crates, stacked high, cast long shadows in the flickering light of a single hanging bulb, making the place look like something out of a cheap horror film. My men flanked me, their footsteps echoing ominously, as we approached the center of the room where the traitor was bound to a chair. His head lolled forward, blood dripping from his swollen lip onto the floor in rhythmic splatters.
"He’s awake," Frankie said, his voice clipped. He nudged the man’s shoulder with the tip of his boot, causing a weak groan to escape the traitor’s throat.
"Good," I muttered, flexing my fingers. They ached, but not enough to stop me.
The man in the chair lifted his head, one eye swollen shut, the other filled with defiance. His name was Derek, a mid-level operative, who thought he could skim from my family’s accounts, and live to tell the tale. He’d been wrong.
"You’ve been busy," I said, crouching in front of him so our eyes were level. My voice was calm, even pleasant, but it carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "You thought I wouldn’t notice a few missing zeroes here and there?"
He spat, the glob of blood and saliva landing on the concrete near my shoe. "You’re nothing but a spoiled brat playing king."
Frankie chuckled darkly from behind me, but I didn’t react. Instead, I grabbed Derek’s chin, forcing him to look at me. My grip tightened until his face turned red, the veins in his neck straining against the pressure.
"I’m not playing anything," I said softly, my tone almost tender. "You think skimming from the Kingsleys was a smart move? You thought you’d get away with it? Tell me, Derek, did it feel good spending my money?"
He tried to jerk his head away, but my grip was unyielding. His good eye darted around the room, looking for an escape that didn’t exist.
"Please," he rasped, his voice cracking. "It was just a mistake. I needed the money for my family."
I laughed, the sound cold and humorless. "Your family? That’s the excuse you’re going with? Do you think my family runs on charity, Derek? You think I built all of this by letting people like you steal from me?"
I released his chin and stood, looking down at him like the insect he was. "Frankie, the knife."
Frankie handed me the blade without hesitation, the hilt fitting perfectly in my palm. The weight of it was familiar, almost comforting. I twirled it once, the steel glinting in the dim light, and crouched again.
"Here’s the thing, Derek," I said, pressing the tip of the blade against his cheek. "You’re going to pay me back. Not withmoney, oh no, you’ve already squandered that chance. You’re going to pay with your blood."
His scream echoed through the warehouse, as I carved the Kingsley insignia into his skin, slow and deliberate. Each stroke of the blade was a reminder of who he’d betrayed, a warning to anyone else who might get ideas. By the time I was finished, he was sobbing, his defiance replaced by unadulterated fear.
"Clean him up," I ordered, tossing the knife onto a nearby crate. "And make sure this message gets to everyone who needs to see it. No one steals from me."
Frankie nodded, already signaling the other men to drag Derek away. The traitor’s cries faded into the distance as they hauled him out of the warehouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the lingering scent of blood.
I glanced down at my hands; the crimson staining my skin a stark contrast to the pale scars that criss crossed my knuckles. I needed to clean up, but the thought of going back to my suite at the country club felt suffocating. There was only one place I wanted to be, one person who occupied my every waking thought.
Zara.
The drive back to the estate was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound. Frankie sat in the passenger seat, his presence a quiet reminder of the life I’d chosen, the life that made me who I was. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry into the obsession I knew he’d noticed. That was why I kept him close; he understood the value of discretion.
When we pulled into the circular driveway of the Kingsley mansion, I didn’t bother parking in the garage. I stepped out, the chilly night air biting at my skin, and made my way inside. The house was dark, the staff long since retired for the evening, but I didn’t need lights to navigate. My feet carried me up the grandstaircase, past the ornate portraits of Kingsley ancestors, who watched with judgmental eyes, and down the hall to her room.
The door was unlocked, as I knew it would be. She was too trusting, too naïve for her own good. I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me, and let my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the curtains.
She was there, curled up on the bed, her breathing slow and even. The moonlight cast a soft glow on her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes against her skin. She looked peaceful, unaware of the storm that was me.
I stepped closer, my boots silent against the plush carpet. The blood on my hands had dried, cracking against my knuckles, but I didn’t care. I reached out, my fingers hovering just above her cheek and, for a moment, I considered waking her. I wanted to see those defiant eyes, to hear her sharp tongue, even as her body betrayed her. But I didn’t. Not yet.
For once I wasn’t looking for a fight.
My cock grew hard at the thought of our bond, even while my mind sneered.
